


so, where is my boy? (maybe, in some kind of dream)

by dannyboyy



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Gender Issues, Trans Luke Skywalker, unintentional misgendering, whoops i'm self indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 05:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5654110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dannyboyy/pseuds/dannyboyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s not sure what it is, but there’s something niggling in the back of her head, always, always there. It’s not unlike the other thing that’s always there; those gut feelings she gets sometimes that somehow seem more than that. But it’s distinct. Something that tugs at her heart strings when she looks at her rounded face in the mirror, her lengthening hair. </p>
<p>Something….something is not quite wrong about her, but also not quite as right as it could be, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so, where is my boy? (maybe, in some kind of dream)

**Author's Note:**

> whoot! i am a trans boy who loves trans boys, so i inevitably make trans headcanons for everyone. tw: unintentional misgendering, self-misgendering by a character who doesn't know he's trans, transphobia
> 
> title from coldplay's "where is my boy"

Lucille Skywalker sits on the edge of the homestead, and watches the twin sunset of Tatooine. The sky glows orange and purple, and the eyes of the suns, seemingly always open, always glaring, now seem half-lidded and tired in their descent. She avoids the suns during the day, when the heat bathes her whole being and tans her hide as she’s working, but the sunsets on Tatooine are beautiful. Looking at the horizon is like catharsis; it reminds her that there is something beyond it, beyond the twin suns. It reminds her even on the worst days, when she feels that the dunes of sand must surely span the whole galaxy, thick and heavy in her shoes, always slowing her journey to where she needs to be.

She’s not sure what it is, but there’s something niggling in the back of her head, always, _always_ there. It’s not unlike the _other_ thing that’s always there; those gut feelings she gets sometimes that somehow seem more than that. But it’s distinct. Something that tugs at her heart strings when she looks at her rounded face in the mirror, her lengthening hair. Something….something is not quite _wrong_ about her, but also not quite as _right_ as it could be, either.

“Luce? I’m shutting down the power, now, come on inside,” Uncle Owen’s voice echoes from the nearest entrance to the homestead.

“Be right there,” She calls back, standing and brushing her pants off.

She is a child of the desert, and she has risen and slept with Tatooine’s suns for longer than she can remember.

But there is no sleep for the desert’s child that night.

\--

When Lucille is fifteen, she meets Biggs Darklighter, and he tells her about how he didn’t feel right in the life that was given to him, and how he changed it, and something _clicks_ , deep in her heart.

Deep…deep in _his_ heart, he corrects himself, and finally that niggling in the back of his skull silences, and becomes a tidal wave of euphoria instead.

That night, sitting in the homestead’s garage, surrounded by the quiet beeping of machinery, he grins to himself, as he takes a pair of shears from Uncle Owen’s toolbox, and cuts the entire length of his hair off.

He could swear the weight that fell off of him was much more than that of the hair he’d lost.

The next morning, if the Lars are upset, they don’t show it. Still, he feels the need to offer some sort of explanation.

“It was getting in the way too much,” It’s not a lie. But he’s also not sure if they’re ready for the whole truth; he hasn’t even figured that out for himself yet, not completely.

He still needs a Name, after all.

\--

Deciding not to tell the Lars becomes deciding not to tell anyone, just yet. Not even Biggs. He sees that people still respect Biggs, call him by that name, use the right pronouns, and oh, does it seem nice. But there are also times when someone will let slip the first syllable of a name long untouched, like blowing dust off of a discarded datapad--not because it was shameful, but because it was obsolete. No longer in use. And still other times people will whisper “she” before catching themselves, apologizing. And it’s alright, really. They’re trying, and Biggs doesn’t seem too bothered by it anyways, but.

But he decides that he doesn’t need the distraction of other people’s perceptions of him interrupting his ever-growing perception of himself. He still doesn’t quite know who he is, or how this newfound sense of identity fits him. He cannot fashion a garment out for himself of pronouns and his Name if others are constantly ripping little tears in the fabric unintentionally or giving him suggestions about the design. No, he decides. He’ll find the rest of himself, first, and then let them see it.

It’s a good plan, and he feels in his heart that it’s for the best.

But he hears someone refers to Biggs as “he”, and he feels that same heart ache.

He sets his gaze firmly upon the horizon, where it’s always been. Just a little bit longer, he tells himself.

Somehow, the suns, and the stars beyond them, seem farther away than ever before.

\--

 For a while, he considers the name of every man he meets. Owen, Biggs, Ben; he catalogues them all in his mind, but nothing really strikes him at all. He isn’t sure how he knows—he’s never asked Biggs how he came across his own name—but somehow he just _knows_ that when he comes across his Name, he’ll know it.

That moment comes for him on a windy night, in a dream. In it, he catches only glimpses, lights, impressions, feelings. Only vague things that make sense in the way that dreams do—somehow both completely and not at all, at the same time.

The dimpled cheek of a smiling woman. A man’s warm hand, caressing her face. Love. Giggles and leaning close to share whispered breaths together. A bright that disrupts the vision, and then crying, like a newborn. It _is_ a newborn, he realizes, and the woman looks at her child, considering, and whispers.

“Luke,”

Her lips move somewhat separately from her voice; her mouth continues on for another syllable, presumably in his old name, the one he’d spent his life being called.

But her voice did not lie, and neither did his tender heart.

Luke, Luke was his Name.

The energy from this revelation not only wakes him, but sends him out of bed immediately, over the platform and up the stairs, out into the moonlit night. The wind is blowing with a vengeance, and Tatooine’s moons light up the sand like stardust all around.

He doesn’t have a reason to be out here, other than the overwhelming _rightness_ and the euphoria that comes with it and the urge to do something wild that Uncle Owen would completely disapprove of.

His smile threatens to split his face and he shouts, with all of his strength, “I am Luke Skywalker!”

He hoops and hollers until the lights in the homestead turn on and Uncle Owen drags him back inside, lecturing him about how important it is to stay inside once the lights are off, how worried his Aunt was, _We thought you had been taken by Tuskens. Hell, with all the racket you were making, we thought you_ were _a Tusken._

He tempers his grin out of respect for their concern, but the roaring fire inside of his lionheart lives on.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> more to follow <3


End file.
